Episode 2: The Work That Never Ends
A Coolvalstories Original
The alarm buzzed at 4:30am. I didn’t need it — my eyes were already open.
Not from excitement, but habit. My body knew what the day required before my brain caught up. Another Monday. Another beginning to the same unending loop.
I slid out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Obinna. He turned and mumbled something in his sleep. He wouldn’t open his eyes until 7am, when everything was already done.
I entered the kitchen barefoot. The floor was cold, but my thoughts were already warm with tasks.
Rice or spaghetti for lunchbox?
Beans finished. No eggs.
Garri for breakfast?
I lit the gas, and the kettle began its tired whistle. As I measured pap into a bowl, I heard a thump — then a cry.
Junior had fallen off the bed again.
I rushed back to the room and scooped him up. He wasn’t bleeding, just startled. His sister, Chisom, sat up too and started crying because he was crying.
By 5:10am, all three kids were up and the day had truly begun.
Feeding children is not as simple as it looks on Instagram.
They don’t want what’s available. They want what’s not in the house. And when you serve it, they say, “Mummy, the stew is peppery.” Or, “I don’t like it again.”
You breathe in, say a silent prayer, and try not to scream.
By 6:00am, I had bathed them all, dressed them, packed two lunch boxes (rice and sausage, with tiny plastic spoons), filled two water bottles, and arranged homework into files that were already torn at the edges.
Obinna was still snoring.
I didn’t hate him. I just envied his peace.
At 6:45am, I strapped Junior to my back, held the twins by the hand, and began the school run. My wrapper was stained with custard, and I wore rubber slippers. No makeup. No earrings. Just the tired confidence of a woman who had no other choice.
By 8:00am, I was back.
That’s when the second shift began.
Laundry.
The clothes pile never ended. I had sorted them into three: whites, coloureds, uniforms. No washing machine — NEPA was out again. The landlord wouldn’t allow generators during the day.
So, I soaked them in cold water. Scrubbed. Rinsed. Stretched my back. Wiped sweat.
Then I swept the sitting room, wiped the dusty fan, arranged toys, mopped the tiles, changed the bedsheets, sprayed insecticide, refilled water in the big flask, and cleaned the bathroom floor that was sticky with soap residue.
It was only 10:15am.
My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten. I had poured water for pap but forgotten it after Junior’s fall. It had gone cold.
I drank it anyway.
By noon, I was frying stew. Again.
Tomatoes are now very expensive. I managed to buy just enough to grind with a handful of tatashe and onions. No meat — just fish. Obinna likes goat meat, but until he sends another food allowance, he will eat what’s available.
I had just started frying when my phone rang. Chidera’s teacher.
“Mummy, she’s refusing to eat. And she’s crying.”
I looked at the stew, then at the clock.
1:04pm.
The oil was just turning red.
By 2:45pm, I was back with all three kids. Sweaty. Hungry. Angry. Exhausted.
Obinna came home at 8:35pm.
That evening, he noticed the twins drawing on the wall with crayons.
I was breastfeeding Junior on the couch.
He walked past me, frowned, and said, “This house is always upside down. What do you even do all day?”
I didn’t respond.
Not because I didn’t have words. But because I was too tired to find them.
How do you explain that I do everything? That this “upside-down” house stays afloat on the back of one woman’s sacrifice?
The food he eats? My sweat.
The uniforms washed? My back.
The calm home he returns to? My planning.
The children’s laughter? My patience.
The bills he doesn’t think about? My small budgeting.
But all he sees is: “The house is untidy.”
Later that night, he touched my waist in bed and whispered, “You’ve added weight o. Maybe you should start skipping in the mornings.”
I stared at the ceiling fan and counted its blades.
No reply.
What should I have said?
I wanted to scream that everything I do is work.
That my labor might be invisible, but it is the foundation of this family.
But instead, I turned away and closed my eyes.
At 4:30am the next day, the alarm buzzed again.
And I rose. Again.
Because even though nobody claps for me, even though there’s no salary, no appreciation, no “thank you,” this house will crumble if I stop.
I am the engine. The cleaner. The cook. The planner. The nurturer. The safety net. The woman behind the curtain that everyone assumes is just resting.
And as I scrubbed the floor that morning, back bent, arms sore, I asked myself:
“When will someone finally see that what I do is real work?”
To be continued in Episode 3: “A Body That Never Rests, A Heart That’s Always Waiting”
